


Need Is Not Quite Belief

by sysrae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, I just have a lot of feelings about Dorian and Bull wanting kids okay?, M/M, how to want kids when you were raised by tamassrans, how to want kids when your family sucks, i have no idea how to tag this, no judging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6747670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Pavus is thirty years old, and he can count on Bull’s maimed hand the number of times he’s seriously considered the prospect of having children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need Is Not Quite Belief

Dorian Pavus is thirty years old, and he can count on Bull’s maimed hand the number of times he’s seriously considered the prospect of having children.

The first time, he was newly fourteen and aching with the knowledge that his romantic interest in girls was never going to eventuate. His father, who had yet to twig to this, was in the middle of one of his periodic assessments of Dorian’s magical progress, and for once, he could find no fault. He’d smiled – a rare, unpolished thing – and said, “You’re a worthy heir, Dorian. Your children will be lucky in their inheritance, provided we find you a suitable girl to mother them. Not yet, of course!” he’d added, laughing at Dorian’s suddenly dumbstruck expression. “Never fear – your bachelorhood is safe for a few more years at least.” And Dorian, who couldn’t bear to disappoint, had forced an answering smile, his stomach twisting as he considered himself in that future, expected role of Magister Pavus, father. Would he one day walk with his son in a garden, as Halward Pavus now walked with him, and fail to see the truth of the one he’d sired? Assuming he could rise to the physical aspect of begetting, would he ever feel such misplaced pride in a child whose desires could only disappoint _? I can’t do it_ , he thought, and tucked his hands in his sleeves to hide their shaking.

The second time was the day before he told his father he wouldn’t marry Livia Herathinos. A life of semi-private debauchery was one thing, but a flat refusal to do his duty was quite another. He tried to imagine inflicting his own upbringing on some hapless son or daughter and felt an ache in his chest so sharp, he swiftly downed a glass of wine to ease it. Any child of his would be as trapped by Tevinter and her politics as Dorian himself; would likely grow to despise him, unless some vestigial childhood love warped them in favour of pity. And then there was Livia herself, as cold and distant as mountain marble. How could Dorian, in good conscience, sentence his hypothetical offspring to the care one whose succour he himself disdained? _I can’t do it_ , he thought again, and steeled himself to tell his father why.

There was not a third time, or a fourth. Dorian has his pride and his freedom both: he knows who he is and what he wants, and it isn’t a fucking legacy – not his father’s, and certainly not his own.

Dorian tries to explain all this to the Iron Bull, but somehow, he doesn’t seem to be doing a good job. Newly returned from a draining stint in the Fallow Mire, they’re having a _very_ pleasant evening, lounging naked in Bull’s bed with the sheets rucked to their hips, taking turns at swigging from a passable bottle of red. Neither of them set out with any intention of talking about children, of all things, except that Dorian accused Bull of being raised in a barn – not with any sting to it; a drawled complaint in response to Bull’s gentle teasing about ‘vint manners – and now, somehow, they’re having a Conversation.

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” Bull says, his chin propped on a massive palm.

“In what sense?” says Dorian, taking another pull of wine. “You asked if I’d ever considered having children; I told you I can’t.”

Bull looks at him strangely. “I didn’t ask if you’d _considered_ it, kadan. I asked if you ever _wanted_.”  

“The difference being?”

“The difference being,” says Bull, reclaiming the bottle, “that one connotes a rational assessment, and the other is an expression of desire. Shit, you of all people should understand that it’s possible to want something you don’t think you can have, just because you want it.” He grins, so sappily unabashed that Dorian can’t help but return the expression. “So I’m gonna ask you again, Dorian: did you ever want kids?”

“Did you?” Dorian shoots back.

Bull goes quiet at that, and instantly, Dorian realises he’s made a mistake. Bull’s silences are bodily things, like he’s tucking that big, bright soul away in some inner recess, putting aside his garish self like festival flags in a rainsquall.

“Before,” he says, meaning, _before I was Tal-Vashoth,_ “I never did. No point to it, under the Qun. We have – we had – tamas to raise us, not mothers or fathers. Children… you don’t want them, because you don’t ever really _have_ them. You breed them, sure, but it’s not the same thing. But now…” His voice trails off, and after a moment he says, soft and flat, “I was good stock, the tamas said. Before Seheron; before I turned myself in for re-education. I probably… I mean, they don’t exactly tell you if it takes or not, but the tamassrans know what they’re doing. Some imekari out there – no. Not an imekari. Shit. They’ll have a name by now.” His expression went bleak. “Another Hissrad, maybe. Just like me.”

“Amatus,” says Dorian, and twines their fingers together, squeezing hard. He doesn’t know what else to say; there is no comfort to offer such an admission. But his own truth, maybe – _that_ will mean something. He shuts his eyes, pulse hammering at the skin of his wrists, and speaks as if from underwater. “Cole left a wooden duck on my bed.”

It’s the kind of non-sequitur most other people would laugh at, but the Iron Bull has never been most people. “Did he tell you why?”

“No, for once. Only apologised that it didn’t have little wheels. I spent half a week puzzling over the significance of it, until I remembered how I’d always wanted one as a child.”

Bull raises an eyebrow. “Screwed up as they are, I have a hard time believing your parents didn’t buy you whatever toys you wanted.”

“Toys appropriate to the dignity of an altus scion, certainly. But a crude wooden thing like the one the son of our soporati cook was always dragging after him? Absolutely not.” Dorian presses himself against Bull’s side, uncertain when the Qunari put the bottle down but glad of it when Bull’s free arm curls over his shoulders, pulling him up across that broad, scarred chest. More than the wooden duck, he’d envied that soporati boy the loving father who’d carved it, the loving mother who’d painted it, the laughter that echoed in their house that never touched his own. To be a child like that – to have a child like that, to be loved by them in turn, to love them with someone who loved you both –  

“Maker,” he murmurs, hiding his face in the Bull’s warm neck, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” asks Bull, letting go of Dorian’s hand to stroke his hair; slow, gentle strokes. It feels like they’re breathing together, hovering on some delicate brink, and Dorian grips him, shaking as his traitor voice cracks.

“The world is breaking, and you – we’re two men, Bull, we couldn’t possibly – we’ve barely managed this end of things, and you’d make me want – you’d make me think –”

“We could,” says Bull, soft, soft. “One day, maybe. If we – if you wanted that.” A ghost smile on the scarred lips grazing his temple, reverent as dawn. “Corypheus has made plenty of orphans. Gotta be at least one kid out there desperate enough to think we’re better than the alternative.”

Dorian does laugh at that, a startled bark. “What, better than penury, starvation and death? That’s quite the stellar recommendation, amatus.”

“Still, though.”

“Still.”

Aeons pass, or maybe seconds.

“I could want that,” Dorian whispers.

This time, Bull’s silence is flags unfurled, a sunsmile warm enough to thaw the Frostbacks.       

“Me, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written while listening to Fleurie's Hurts Like Hell on repeat, because my soul is forever sixteen. Title taken from Anne Sexton's 'With Mercy for the Greedy' for basically the same reason. 
> 
> Sincere apologies to my actual deadlines: I am a trashfire of a human being, and you deserve better.


End file.
